He cocks his head and squints into the distance as I fumble with the cord at my chest, straining to hear the Josh Frost song bleating from the speakers while mentally rehearsing the corresponding moves.
“Point is, they’ve got us right where they want us. Like Pavlov’s dogs, we’re completely programmed. And most of these people are too zombified to notice.” He shakes his head as he flicks a disdainful look at our classmates. All of whom, much like me, are living for the moment the bell will announce our escape.
I drum my fingers against my desk. I have no reply. Unlike Dougall, I’ve got no beef with the system.
On any other day I’d probably go along—might even help build on his theory. But today, well, let’s just say that today that bell is my friend.
The second it rings we’ll make for lunch and then over to the school gym, where Josh Frost—International Superstar, with his very own reality show, Frost World—will judge the Greentree Middle School Talent Show.
The kid who wins not only gets to stand on the stage next to Josh, but he’ll also snag an appearance on Josh’s show, which is pretty much a fast-track pass to a much cooler life.
Luckily for me, I’ve fully imagined a routine that virtually guarantees the win will be mine.
From the second they announced that Josh was stopping by his old school to offer us a brush with fortune and fame, I knew it was just what I needed to rid myself of the unfortunate Brainiac Nerd label my classmates have given me.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since starting middle school, it’s that the things that worked for me in sixth grade are now working against me.
I’m desperately in need of an image makeover.
Dougall is too.
But it’s not like he’s noticed.
He just slouches against his desk, shaking his head and sighing like an old man with two bad knees and a long list of regrets.
Dougall practically lives for conspiracy theories. Unexplained mysteries, Bigfoot, UFOs, the Bermuda Triangle—they’re like catnip to him.
“We should start a revolt. Take back the clock.” He nods like he means it but otherwise doesn’t make a single move from his seat.
Dougall’s a talker. A thinker. More into theory than action. He’s also been my best friend going all the way back to the third grade, when he and his dad moved into the house next to mine and we discovered a mutual interest in getting good grades and avoiding PE.
But lately I can’t help but wonder if Dougall might be holding me back.
He hasn’t made a single adjustment since we got to this place.
And now, two years later, the only difference he sees between grade school and here is the number of bells.
He definitely hasn’t noticed that girls no longer have cooties.
Never mind just how far we’ve veered from the circle of cool.
The kind of things I noticed almost immediately.
It took me only a few days in this school to realize a startling truth: everything I once thought I knew is no longer true.
For instance, I used to be so proud of the “Most Likely to Succeed” certificate I was awarded at the end of fifth grade, I even tacked it to my bedroom wall as a daily reminder of just how high my personal bar had been set.
But here at Greentree, all that certificate really means is that out of a class of thirty-five fifth graders, I’d been pegged as the one with the best shot of achieving social obscurity.
When it comes to seventh-grade girls, that certificate makes me only slightly more appealing than a bowlful of maggots.
Which is not to say that I’m repulsive to look at. ’Cause I’m not.
In the looks department, on a scale from Dougall Clement’s crazy Einstein hair, vitamin D?deprived skin, and skinny body of the type some people call wiry to Josh Frost’s obvious perfection, I’d say I’m closer to Josh.
I mean, we both have the kind of straight brown hair that sometimes flops in our eyes. We both have eyes that aren’t exactly green or brown, so people call them hazel. And as for the rest of our features, well, they’re pretty much standard issue—it’s just that Josh’s are better situated. And even though I had a two-inch growth spurt last summer, it still leaves me four inches shorter than Josh’s five feet nine. But my mom swears I’m still growing, so there’s hope that I’ll catch up.
In other words, the raw materials are all there. And while I’m fully aware that there’s nothing outstanding about me, I think it’s worth noting that there’s nothing especially hideous about me either.
Not like it makes a difference.
Seventh-grade girls like guys who are cool.
What they don’t like are guys who, during the first week of the new school year, shout “Yes!” when their science teacher ambushes them with a pop quiz. Fist pump included.
They also don’t like it when that same guy, oblivious to his classmates’ searing looks of disdain, not only finishes his quiz first, but gets the perfect score that inspires the teacher to grade on a curve, deeming Smart Guy the one to beat.